There were a couple of possibilities to look into, strange stories that they could definitely see their father looking into. Sam stretched out on the motel bed, his laptop warming his legs uncomfortably as he tried to hack local police databases for the full scoop from the coroner. As it got later and later in the evening, Dean tried to distract himself by watching some horrible B-horror flick, resting up against the headboard with a beer in his hand, comfortable in his boxers. It ended up being about creatures that burrowed in a person's brain, a lame attempt at a Body Snatchers knock off. The creatures eventually made the victims bleed out the eyes and then their brains exploded. Just a little bit too close to home to even get a good laugh in at the painfully pink blood the crap FX team had used. Dean flicked it to Three's Company. Now they were talking…what Dean wouldn't give to get in the middle of those two women: a sultry, if slightly vapid blonde and a button-down librarian-type brunette who you knew just had to be wild between the sheets. John Ritter had it made. A bunch of episodes back-to-back had him chuckling, nearly able to ignore the clock as time surged forth.
Jack Tripper gloriously prat-fell onto Suzanne Somers lap when Sam began not being so subtle about reading the prescription packet and glancing over at Dean every few moments. Usually, Dean lived to make the kid this on-edge, this time he just felt guilty/nervous himself.
"Sam!"
"What? You okay?" Sam stood up, plastic cases in hand, ready to leap across the room if need be.
Dean raised his eyebrows over at Sam's worried expression. Dear God, he could probably lose his pocket change in the furrows of that giant geek head of his.
"I'm fine. Sit. Relax. Watch Suzanne bounce up and down excitedly with me." Dean's eyes flicked back over to the TV, where sure enough – that's what the blonde beauty was doing. It wasn't a surprise, though. She did it once an episode.
Sam sat back down heavily on his bed. "I can't watch this with you. It is like sharing porn."
"Ew. Don't think of it like that. It is two men appreciating the beauty and vigor that women have to offer. Camaraderie."
A white-hot spike reared up behind Dean's retina; he turned his face away from Sam as the hammer began driving it in.
"How 'bout we keep our mutual appreciation of vigor to ourselves, man. And if you need some time to be, er, vigorous – with Suzanne, you just let me know and I'll give you some alone time."
It was the fact that Dean didn't jump on the chance to leer or comment at Sam's implication of whacking it that tipped him off.
"Dean?" Sam stood up more slowly this time when his brother didn't answer and was keeping the right side of his face turned toward the wall. It didn't escape Sam's notice that tears had begun dribbling down that side of Dean's face, wetting the t-shirt he wore drop by drop. Sam snagged the Imitrex injector from its place on the bedside table. He'd had the forethought to load it when he'd first noticed the time was getting close.
Dean felt the bed sink as Sam sat down on his bed and he cautioned a glance in that direction.
"Can you manage?" his brother asked quietly, holding out the grey plastic injector.
"Ye-," Dean began, the air hitching around the word as a game of racquetball raged in his brain. And it pissed Dean off that he was even aware of racquetball as a sport, because as far as he was aware only yuppie douches were allowed to play.
He felt Sam gently press the plastic into his hand. It meant all sorts of symbolic things about trust, respect, and love that made Dean want to simultaneously tug his brother a little closer and roll his eyes. They were heading into RomCom territory, and that just didn't sit fine with him since he found out that it meant Romantic Comedy and not Romero Complications (being informed of this fact by Sam had bummed him out severely – because he'd have to find some other way to reference zombie infestations, and hell, he'd liked that one).
Dean closed his fingers around the medication and pressed it into his arm, popping the button and feeling the sting bite into his flesh. Sam sat there next to him – for once managing the line between complete absence and being a goddamn governess. Dean's head dangled heavily forward on his head as he felt each throb pull him forward. The laughtrack exploded from the TV sending a violent shudder throughout his body, shaking the mattress as he cringed from the sound.
"Shit! Sorry." Sam fumbled for the remote and clicked the TV off.
They sat in silence for a few more moments before Sam asked, "How long should we wait until we move on to the new stuff?"
Dean shrugged his shoulders. It wasn't that he didn't care, it was that he couldn't form an opinion when he felt like his head was being used as a ball for Brazilian soccer players trying for the World Cup. Although he didn't seem to have any trouble with obscure sports metaphors. At any rate, Sam seemed to understand.
"Fifteen minutes then. Same as last time, I think." His younger brother's voice was decisive and firm.
They continued sitting together on the bed, Sam edging as close to Dean as he possibly could without putting his hands on him. Dean trusted Sam to count off the minutes to possible relief, while Sam politely ignored the stifled grunts and whimpers that began to eke out of his brother's trembling frame with each spike that clawed its way up his cranial nerves. Dean bolted forward with one particularly harsh throb and nearly tossed himself forward off of the bed, except Sam had managed to catch him by the shoulders and snagged him backward forcefully enough to ward off the potential face-plant. Sam didn't remove his hand from Dean's shoulder, but instead gently thumbed at a knot the size of Nebraska and began quietly mumbling assurances.
"S'okay, dude. Just a few more minutes. A few more, I swear. " Sam paused for a moment, and Dean felt his brother's huge ham-like hands groping his back. A little unnerving to be sure, but Dean didn't have the wherewithal to shrug him off or snark his way out of Sam's grip.
"God, Dean…you're one big knot." Remembering how Dean had tried to provide him with the hook-up when he wasn't feeling well, he added. "Tell you what, tomorrow I'll find you a hot masseuse to fix you right up."
Dean couldn't help a snort of laughter at that, which caused a gross bubble of snot to form out of his right nostril. He wiped his nose with his sleeve. He was rather sure that he and Sam had different ideas on how a visit with a hot masseuse should end.
The mattress shifted as Sam got up and it took everything Dean had to not pull him back down next to him. God help him, but having Zorba the Geek close by was kind of comforting. He didn't know, maybe Sam being annoying was a good distraction from pain. Either way, he was getting used to it. Despite that, there was still that lingering fear that every time Sam walked away it was going to be for good.
He needn't have worried, because this time Sam was just going to the table where the other meds were, coming back with a glass of water to boot.
Dean looked up when he felt Sam crouched in front of him. He wanted to remind him not to do that. Ever since the kid had sprouted up an additional fifty feet, his knees couldn't handle that position without complaining. Baby brother would never learn.
Sam pulled out a rectangle wrapped something-or-other out of its plastic case, studying the package for a moment before grabbing his Swiss Army knife and using the scissor attachment to cut the package open. What he pulled out was a lollipop, a white strange-looking lollipop, but a lollipop to be sure. It reminded him of coconut Dum-Dums, which were frankly, the worst fucking flavor you could score on Halloween.
Dean just stared. Someone had to be fucking with him.
Sam caught Dean's look of panic. "Hey, man, this is the real-deal, I swear. I looked it up before. They flavored it with some kind of berry flavor or something, but I don't know if that is covering up some other nasty taste…so I have the water here. " Sam paused and took a breath.
"Dean, I need to know you're hearing me."
The older brother clenched his eyes shut, bringing his hand up to brush away the tears that fell in quick succession. Dean held a fist to his right eye. "M'listening. Fuck."
"Okay, so…you have to hold this in your mouth, on the side, and let it dissolve. Don't bite it, okay? It gets into your system through your cheek quicker than through your stomach. You got that?"
Dean didn't reply, so Sam tried again. "Dean, you got that?" There was obvious desperation in his voice, the sound of which ate at Dean's soul a little.
Dean took his hand away and gazed blearily at Sam. "Cheek. Don't chew. That it?"
"Yeah." Sam held the little white stick out to Dean and made sure he had a firm grip on it, because god knows what would be sticking to it if it fell on a motel floor.
Dean promptly stuck it obediently in his mouth, all the way to the side, the little stick protruding out of his lips like a thermometer. He fought the urge to bite down, because Sam knew him too well – he'd never gotten the hang of sucking on candy or cough drops, he would just mow his way through the bag. It dissolved fairly quickly, though, a sweet generic berry flavor on top of a slight aftertaste. Really, it tasted pretty damn good.
He started to feel the relief right away, the icepick through his skull easing off bit by bit. He reached out for Sam who was still crouched in front of him and began hauling him up bodily by the elbow to move him back onto the bed.
Sam gripped Dean's forearm back. "What, Dean….is it worse? Did you change your mind about the ER? You need to let me get my shoes."
"No, Worrywart. S'working." Dean said, tugging at Sam even more fervently. The medication made his limbs feel pleasantly heavy, which made him pleasantly annoyed. He'd be pretty useless in a fight right now. Granted, he'd be more useless with his head on fire.
"Then what is it?"
"You need to sit right, Sam. You abuse your knees like that and you aren't gonna be running right for a week."
Sam raised his eyebrows at his brother, dumbfounded. "I guess it really is working, if we're back to the status quo." And it was, really – Dean back to worrying about Sam, all was right with the world. And how fucked up was that?
"Dunno what you mean by that, but wouldja move already, Sammy?"
Sam used the bed to prop himself back up slowly, his joints snapping and creaking as he made his ascent toward the ceiling. He settled himself so he was facing Dean, one leg hanging off of the bed. He reached out with two fingers and placed them on his brother's neck.
"Geez, Florence, y'gotta be so hands on?" Dean chuckled slightly.
"Your pulse is getting back down to normal. How'dya feel, Stoner?" Sam quirked a grin, still assessing the elder Winchester.
"Better all the time." Dean's eyelids were began to droop, tears still clinging wetly to his eyelashes.
"I'm serious, man. 1-10 scale…you know the drill."
"1-10 pain scale is not fair, Sammy."
"How do you figure?"
"Well, for us….the way we get tossed around, pain is pretty normal. So what would a dislocated shoulder be, a cracked rib, a sucking chest wound?" Dean was starting to prattle like a gossiping teenager, a sure sign the meds where hitting him. He used to frustrate the hell out of their Dad when he was on morphine, wanting to re-hash every hunt they'd ever been on, every state highway they'd ever travelled, every state animal Sam had been able to find when they were in the state at the time. Roadrunners really exist, Sammy, I promise!
Sam rolled his eyes. "It is a subjective scale, Dean, it has to be, because pain is subjective. I just want to know where you're at, so if we have to change the dosage we know what to tell the doctor. Help me out here. If ten was where you were at a few minutes ago…what would it be now?"
"Dunno, a seven? I can totally handle a seven, dude. I handle sevens all the time."
"Kind of a sad comment on our lives, man."
"Only if you let it be, Sam." Dean looked at his younger brother seriously, fighting the doped up feeling. It was an old argument, one that Dean didn't want to get into right now, especially if it meant he wouldn't be able to keep his mouth shut.
There was a gentle swaying sensation and it took a moment for Dean to realize that it was Sam, pushing him back onto the bed.
"What are you doing, Mr. McFeely?"
"Laying you down. If you hadn't noticed you were about to eat carpet." Sam purposefully ignored the leer that crossed Dean's face and plowed onward."You keep nodding off." Sam's overly large hands fumbled with Dean's heavy limbs. Dean thought it was kinda funny, that he was being no help at all. It reminded him of when they were training for the fireman's carry, and Sam finally had graduated beyond hefting a duffel bag only to be rewarded with a pretend-unconscious big brother draped across his shoulders. Ah, the good ol' days. Wait, Sam was still talking?
"… dude, Mr. McFeely?"
Dean quirked an eyebrow at his younger brother, now that it didn't hurt so terribly much to do so. "You would rather be Lady Elaine? You're certainly a big enough bitch."
"Bite me. Even in the Land of Make Believe, you are still an incredible asshole."
Dean fought to open his eyes to get a good read on his brother's face. Sam looked more relaxed than he had in days, which worked out because Dean was certainly there with him. Scratchy motel blankets were suddenly cocooning the elder hunter's body, and Dean wondered if he'd metamorphose into something else. 'Cause he'd be able to get the jump on a whole bunch of evil bitches if he had wings. He imagined himself aiming his favorite sawed-off as he darted across the sky gracefully, chasing down beasties in the form of Led Zeppelin's Icarus – but with more clothes.
He heard Sam's far off voice say, "Don't fight it, dude, just go to sleep."
Dean nestled down into the comfort of the blankets. "Don'worry, Sammy. We'll get you a jet pack or somethin'."